


Perceived

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Humor, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chief's got a tell, too, but informing him would sort of ruin the fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perceived

"Just tell me what I'm doing to give myself away."

Bull lays down his cards—smug grin on his face, the bastard—and sweeps the little pile of sovereigns over to his side of the table. "Nope. I like taking your gold just fine."

Krem blows out a frustrated sigh, reaching for his mug. "Lazy of you. You tell me, I develop a _new_ tell, you get to work it out, thereby keeping your skills of observation razor-sharp."

Bull's remaining eyebrow lifts. He does skepticism well for someone missing part of his face. "It would take one hand, tops. That's not practice."

A draft blows in around Krem's feet, and he leans to the left to see around Bull. Judging by the scrum at the door, the Herald has just walked in. Krem glimpses her strained smile between the bodies of tavern-goers, eager to greet her and even more eager to buy her a drink. She looks tired. Poor girl—probably never been the center of so much positive attention in her life.

"Maybe you need someone new to observe, then," Krem says. He raises his voice enough to be heard across the tavern. "Herald!"

There's a flash of relief on her face when she catches his eye; smile more genuine now, she makes her excuses to the onlookers and weaves between them to the table in the corner. She doesn't have to go far. The Singing Maiden is not exactly a spacious tavern. Krem nudges out a chair for her at the end of the table.

She drops into it with a relieved sigh, wine glass balanced carefully in hand. "Thank you," she says. "I never know how to evict myself from the pile at the door."

"Don't thank him yet," Bull grunts. "He waved you over because he's tired of losing."

Her eyes flick from the cards on the table to Bull's face and just as quickly away again. Krem's noticed this new strategy of hers lately, like she can keep her composure as long as she doesn't make eye contact. It's cute, really. Krem's seen the way other people stare at Bull—eyes lingering on his horns and bare chest like he's some _thing_ and not some _one_ , always skipping over the eye and the brace and the missing bits of his fingers—but Katrina's not like that at all. She's earnest about it: always stopping by to talk, not to look.

Chief doesn't know what to do about it, either. He handles her like he's mulling it over, like he's waiting for a sign to tell him where this goes next.

It's _hilarious_.

"He should know better, playing against a spy," she says, smiling apologetically at Krem.

"No, he's just terrible," Bull corrects her, and she laughs, dimples appearing in her cheeks.

"Well, let's find out." She rummages for her coin purse and drops it on the table. "What's the game?"

"Wicked Grace," Krem says, shuffling the cards. "Ever played?"

She glances away, sipping her wine. "A little."

Bull guffaws. "You're shitting me. Is that what you do all day in those—"

"Shut _up_ , Bull." Her exasperation is clear on her face; she shoots him a glare, only a little pink in her cheeks.

"Something I should know?" Krem passes over her cards.

"Nothing you haven't already guessed, I'm sure," she mutters, putting her glass down.

The game passes quietly. Bull observes, smirking to himself. Maybe _he_ has an easy time reading Katrina, but so many of her mannerisms are the same as her everyday nerves: her bottom lip caught between her teeth, only the most cursory eye contact, hasty sips of her wine. Krem can't tell if she's got good cards or terrible ones, or if Bull's presence is just flustering her.

They've gone through more than half the deck, and the Angel of Death hasn't made an appearance, which is bad news for Krem; his hand is crap. Katrina draws. Bull's eye follows the card to her hand.

What follows is amusing, if infuriating: Bull leans down to speak directly into Katrina's ear. She startles, nearly upsetting her wine glass, and tightens her hold on her cards. Her free hand flies to her mouth, hiding her grin.

When he straightens up, she lets out a disbelieving chuckle and lays down the Angel of Death.

"You told her," Krem grumbles, showing his cards. Hers is clearly the superior hand. "You won't tell me, but you told _her_."

Before meeting Bull, Krem didn't think he'd ever describe a Qunari as annoying—terrifying, maybe, or brutal—but now he wouldn't hesitate. The jaunty way he tips his head sideways, teeth flashing in a cocky grin, could only be described as _annoying_.

"Whether he'd told me or not, I think you were going to lose," Katrina points out, sweeping the pile of gold toward her. "Want in, Bull?"

"Deal. I'll get refills." He picks up her glass and his mug—not Krem's, though, the asshole—and makes for the bar. How he gets there without knocking over half the tables is beyond Krem.

"He'll destroy you," he tells Katrina.

She shrugs, fingers curving to shuffle the deck. "What do I need gold for, anyway? It's not like anyone's going to let the Herald of Andraste go hungry."

"If that's how you feel about it…" Krem reaches for the pile. She smacks his hand away.

"I don't _need_ it. But I did win it."

"By cheating," he protests. "You won it by cheating."

She sighs, casting him a forlorn look. "I didn't ask him to tell me."

"Make it up to me," he suggests. "What's my tell?"

"What, you don't know?"

He never thought he'd describe the Herald of Andraste as annoying, either—she's a sweet girl, usually too shy for her own good—but Bull is obviously a bad influence on her. Her grin is entirely too delighted.

"Forget it," he groans, pushing back from the table. Bull's making his way back from the bar; Krem gives him a sarcastic salute. "I'm turning in. Enjoy your inevitable defeat, Your Worship."

She waves him off with a cheery smile. When he reaches the door, he turns back, just briefly, to see them: Bull handing over her wine, his eye on her face, a suspiciously fond smile lingering around his mouth.

Chief's got a tell, too, but informing him would sort of ruin the fun.


End file.
